


Hungry Mouth

by AnonPenguin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Breaking and Entering, Come Eating, Come Swallowing, F/M, Face-Fucking, Food Porn, Hair-pulling, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 18:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30093588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonPenguin/pseuds/AnonPenguin
Summary: Rey has so much going on. First school, then her job stealing shit for Plutt.She's been monitoring this one place for a while now.It's perfect.And who cares if she gets a little hungry and takes a little something as she goes.***“Sorry, the floor’s kind of hard.” He pushes his bottoms down his hips, just enough room to pull out his cock, long and flaccid. She’s staring and he smiles at her with fondness. “Don’t worry, it’s much bigger when your mouth is stretching over it.”There’s another soft squeak from her shoes as she lowers herself and kneels beneath his hands stroking and stretching his length.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	Hungry Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Two ridiculously kind, encouraging souls. ❤️ Thank you!

Fucking rich people.

With their industrial lighting design.

Reclaimed wood and exposed pipe.

Only rich people would want their kitchen to look like an old factory where child workers toiled away to build them up.

She doesn’t know everything, but she learned that shit in Social Studies.

It’s clean.

Pristine.

Housekeeper, definitely.

Or a maid.

Probably the same one that placed the white flowers on the kitchen table.

Lilies?

They’re strong, the smell almost offensive.

He’s single, no family to be found. There are a few pictures scattered in the hall near the main entrance. Ugly landscapes; a few that look like better versions of the paintings from that motel she works on Main and Sixth.

He owns a really expensive painting. 

Not after today.

She’s lucky that she’s not lifting many things today. The work was really in monitoring the place. The movements of the occupant.

He keeps himself well-hidden.

Luckily, his schedule is precise, nearly down to the minute.

She’s roaming the kitchen once more when she sees something out of place. The clear shine of a plastic bag peeking from the cabinet.

She tugs at it, pulling the cabinet open to reveal a small pantry of sandwich items.

Fucking rich people and their sandwich cabinets.

Fancy peanut butter. 

Maybe she’ll take that too.

Strawberry preserves from an unopened jar that looks like it’s been crowned and gift wrapped.

The mental snapshot of the silverware drawer calls to her, and her feet find the spot like she’s always scavenging for buried treasure.

She’s got time.

She opens the bag. A whole wheat, organic, all-natural monster that smells amazing.

The little royal strawberry jam jar has the fresh little pop of sound when she opens it.

_ Oh God. _

The strawberries smell almost fresh, juicy and plump on a hot farmstand.

There’s a delicious  _ shh  _ slide of the peanut butter jar and something she’s never seen before.

A jar with only a single knife stroke inside, the rest smooth and sheen at the top. It’s practically a fresh jar as well, and it smells ridiculous. 

Ridiculous and familiar.

The memory is either cheap or divine. Either safe or made at the hands of villainy. 

Today she’s the hands and the hands mark her ways.

And unfortunately, her errors are born of her fortitude and a bit of hunger.

She slides the knife with a slow push inside of the jar and slathers the butter on a slice, the spongy bread giving and taking as she goes. The scent unfolds warm and thick above the jar and her mouth waters with the promise of the slow smack of her jaw masticating each morsel.

Her tongue darts out, dragging it across the smooth steel, taking in every last bit before plunging it into the jam. It squishes pleasantly and she loads up the other slice, smearing it until it seeps through a small hole in the top corner.

She softly presses each side together and flips it back and forth in her hand.

The caps are left open, the evidence left on the counter, her movements mirrored in the bright finish.

She’s not gonna fucking clean it up.

It’s still quiet as she peruses the rest of the house, yummy sandwich in hand.

A rush of saliva aids her as she chews slowly, wandering towards a sitting room with pocket doors.

The only thing of disinterest, a pretentious space with walls of red and furniture of black. A sword collection above the mantle.

Fucking rich people.

She takes a bite. It sticks and fills her mouth.

A smattering of drawings, medical charts framed with care.

Probably meant to impress.

Craning her neck to lick a drop of jam to her palm, the sharp glint of a curious tool catches her eye.

The jam floods a bit from the corner and she turns and rolls the bread, licking slowly along the seam.

Cold, silver metal corkscrewed.

A hook.

A leather handle- or a hilt?

She’s smacking, chuckling.

“Rich  _ and  _ a serial killer,” she says, muttering into the dead space.

Her jaw pops as she swallows.

“Not a serial killer, just a hobby.”

It’s stuck.

The small bite is slowly moving and lodged there on its path.

Ways and errors.

He’s standing there in the doorway and even with the wide, open space he eats it.

Dark hair, clean face.

She’s not choking, just stunned. She’d let him murder her for a fucking glass of milk.

Holy shit, he just might.

“Is it good,” he asks, nodding toward the sandwich in her hand. He’s working his jaw as she feels her chin slowly move and stare at the mistake in her hand.

She nods, the walls bending and pushing in, the rich asshole barring the only exit.

His hand moves from his side and lightly rests on the gold of his belt.

His eyes would easily be considered warm if he didn’t look so fucking angry. The light from the other room filters in again as he steps aside, pushing the door fully into its proper pocket. 

Following him back out to the kitchen, she's still holding the sandwich, now behind her back with her thumb pressing lightly into the outside.

“Hungry,” he asks, sliding his hand on the pristine countertop before landing on the bottom of the jam jar. Thick fingers situated on a large palm squeeze. “You must be starving to not only steal from my home, but take a souvenir before you go.”

He pauses.

“Come here, scavenger.”

It’s the sound of squeaking rubber on the hardwood floors, clumsily shuffling towards him that makes her stomach turn, her body indicating something her mind refuses to process.

He opens his hand, presenting it to her like a plate for her pilfered item.

She places it there and watches as he lifts it to his mouth and takes a bite.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make you a new one,” he says, catching the way her lips part, as if she has any right to feel defensive over stolen goods.

He places the sandwich down on the clean countertop, removing his belt and snapping the leather with a loud pop between his hands. Like her neck. How easily it could snap with so little effort.

“I work so hard, scavenger. He’s not a nice man, but my boss makes me work very hard for what I have.”

The clink of the buckle echoes on the floor and her chin lifts, pressing her mouth in a hard line of defiance.

“Ya gonna beat me,” she asks, a slight quiver in her voice.

“I told you, I’m not a serial killer. I just have an unusual hobby,” he says, undoing the button and sliding the zipper down. “Sorry, the floor’s kind of hard.” He pushes his bottoms down his hips, just enough room to pull out his cock, long and flaccid. She’s staring and he smiles at her with fondness. “Don’t worry, it’s much bigger when your mouth is stretching over it.”

There’s another soft squeak from her shoes as she lowers herself and kneels beneath his hands stroking and stretching his length.

She’s seen a dick before, several.

That asshole from school that she dated. 

The guy on the bus. 

He’s-

“Stop thinking and open up.”

Large. He’s large.

She’s staring at the tip when he groans at the sight of her licking her lips. Her tongue is paper, soaking up anything to help her lubricate him. She wonders at the small drop leaking from the hole when he leans forward and places the tip on her tongue. Instinctively, she wraps her lips to embrace the head.

He’s warm and salt, like the bits of sweat that run down your face on a hot day. 

Sour.

Hot.

He chuckles and she feels the way she’s sucking and tonguing the soft skin without any command. Her eyes are wide as he groans, thrusting into her mouth and causing her to nearly gag.

“Don’t stop,” he says.

She licks, tentatively.

“Just like the knife,” he says on the wings of his breath. 

Her eyes are wide.

“Don’t stop,” he commands, his voice dark.

She licks with her eyes closed, her tongue flattening over his length and dragging up and down like she’s desperate for peanut butter and not for him to just fucking let her go. She begins to enter a rhythm, slow and punishing to allow her to manage him, and he leans against the island with his elbows to the glossy countertop. She can feel his abdomen stretch and opens her eyes to see him take her motherfucking peanut butter and jelly sandwich in hand and take a bite.

“Oh fuck, don’t stop, little scavenger,” he says, muffled through bread and sticky butter.

He thrusts and she gasps, choking on him and the spit that has managed to gather and leave through the corners of her mouth.

“Fuck,” he says, again.

He’s grabbing her ponytail and pulling her closer when his thrusts begins to increase in speed and power until her neck aches.

She whimpers, tensing and clamping her mouth down. Even though he moans for a few moments, she can’t tell if he’s pleased with her or the sandwich.

Her lids and brows feel the pull first as he tugs at her hair again, nearly lifting her up from her place on the floor.

“That’s it. Open up. Let me in. Let me in.”

She swallows, and he’s whining, a low whirring from his chest building.

“Ready for a taste?”

He pushes in faster and faster until she’s drooling, the sloppy squish more obscene than any time she’s had her pussy fucked.

Her knees and hands tremble as she tries to open her mouth, her throat, anything to comply with his wishes.

She’s choking, begging, reaching for and clawing at his hips.

She hums to speak, but he just accepts the effort with a whispered  _ yes  _ of agreement and a rough thrust. Her eyes water, and she’s starting to whine. He holds her head back again until she’s paralyzed with the assault, a weeping vessel. A thrusting knife on her numb tongue.

He pulls out suddenly, his hand stroking with a steady slap. One hand at her nape, the other on his dick, he leans forward and he groans loudly, coming into his hand.

She relaxes too soon, letting her chin drop and surprised when he pulls at her ponytail once more to place his dripping cock on her tongue.

Even through her tears and aching mouth, she wraps her lips around instinctively, apparently hungry no matter what is placed before her.

His cum is warm, thick, and bitter, although she’s not sure if it’s the taste as much as the deep feelings he elicits from her.

He’s sweaty and panting as he stands under the expensive lighting, his dick swinging and his underwear still sitting below his hips. He reaches for the bread bag, taking a slice and wiping his cummy hand on it.

She swallows, collapsing further onto the floor.

She hears a drawer open, a fresh knife pulled as he fiddles with the items.

“Go put my shit back, you fucking scavenger.”

She unwraps the items, placing them in close proximity to their original spots in his home. She keeps swallowing, fresh soreness and tears beginning to fade as she makes her way back to the kitchen where he’s prepared two sandwiches.

“Take one,” he says, smiling with a slight twinkle in his eyes.

She should probably run.

“I told you I’d make you another one,” he says, friendly. 

Warm. 

Neighborly.

He’s shifting before her, his smile almost charming. 

Her bag on her back, she reaches forward and takes a sandwich as well as the napkin that he offers.

She covers it up, stepping back with her eyes on him as she makes her way to the door.

“Tell Plutt he still owes me,” he says, tidying the kitchen again.

Her body tenses, and this time, she’s unable to be careful, pressing her fingers into the soft bread at his words and leaving little fingerprints.

She walks home, slowly collecting each item she was supposed to snag in her mind and letting them circle there over and over.

She unwraps the sandwich on her walk to the train station, slowly peeling back the bread by an inch to look inside.

Starving, she takes a bite.

She’s too hungry to care.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> My friends, thanks for reading!


End file.
